


hold on to your heart

by fatiguedfern



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Emetophobia, Gen, Spoilers, it’s fully up to interpretation, the saimota can really be seen as hinting at something romantic or entirely platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-16 10:15:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14162613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatiguedfern/pseuds/fatiguedfern
Summary: Kaito claws his way to a dead end.





	hold on to your heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [corgasbord](https://archiveofourown.org/users/corgasbord/gifts).



> i suppose this is entirely too late to be considered a birthday fic? regardless, thank you for your friendship, and for being an amazing person!!

There’s blood stuck between his teeth, he notes mutedly as he slowly clambers the eerily silent descent down the manhole. The ladder rungs bite into the roughened skin of his palms, abrading against the hardened layer of a cluttered spattering of calluses and leaving softer strips of flesh between pulsing red angrily. He counts the rungs one for one as he lowers himself further and further down the manhole. Absentmindedly, his tongue traces the ridges of his teeth, hoping to clean the remainder of blood hastily spat from the most secluded and hidden of enamel corners. At the very bottom of the pit pooling in his stomach, an unyieldingly twinge of dread insists that the aftertaste would linger regardless.

He lands with a dusty thud, a weighted scuffling of slippers echoing throughout the ill-lit quietude blanketing the underground passage. His breathing is exhaled in puffs far too uneven and shallow to be considered healthy, but he quickly buries it beneath dog-eared determination.

The passage entrance stands tall in comparison to his semi-slouched posture. Now, standing right in front of the taunting exit sign, he can’t seem to choke down the bile rising in his throat, nor mask it as anything but a product of dread and fear. Taking a jagged breath and clenching trembling fists, Kaito steps forward.

It takes what little sense he can muster to stop him from sprinting through the hall leading towards the first gate, following the unyielding urge to do anything to be of use. Instead, he slows his steps to a tired, dutiful march.

In-between heavy footfalls, Kaito recalls corpses.

Amami had died a victim, and in the end if he’s entirely truthful with himself, Kaito knows that Amami’s most defining trait would remain just that in his eyes. He didn’t deserve to die when he had, but Amami had, long before Kaito could recognise him as anything more than a stranger - dubbed friend - met with an unjust fate. Kaito colours his perception of Amami’s face a pure, just white.

Akamatsu had died with blood on her hands and good intentions leading to a noose coiled around her throat. Kaito had tried to save her, stood tall alongside shakily headstrong Chabashira and blindly caring Gonta. Kaito had tried, and he had failed. An incessant strand of doubt knotting in his stomach speaks of said failure being repeated. He colours his perception of Akamatsu’s fair, kind features a brilliant white, threatened to be plunged into the dark by despicable shadows.

Hoshi had died a murderer. But nevertheless, the end he’d met hadn’t been near just. He hadn’t been a bad guy, Kaito maintains. He colours Hoshi’s grim eyes a pitch black waiting to be dyed white, always left waiting.

Angie had died still blindfolded by her relentless belief. Though misguided, she had at the core of it thought her actions to be for the best, and Kaito can appreciate that. He colours her countenance a white far too human to be holy in his mind’s eye.

Chabashira had died nobly. She’d fought to protect everyone, especially those she cared most for. She’d clung to her strength, and had been more than willing to lend it to another. And though Chabashira would have resented any relation drawn between himself and her own being, Kaito likes to think they’re somewhat similar in a sense. He colours his perception of her strong features an honourable white, a would-be hero’s colouring.

Shinguuji’s blood is the freshest to be shed, and the most tainted. Kaito spares no thought before dying his perception of Shinguuji’s masked features a solid black.

Black and white. Good and bad. It’s a simple, clear cut morality that leaves him able to file dead faces into their respective compartments. He doesn’t dare question it, because in the end blurred lines are most often smudged with blood and Kaito can’t bring himself to think too hard on the matter whilst his own seems to be seething into poison itself. Insistently, somewhere, almost lost amongst the ache creaking through his bones, doubt questions whether Kaito’d be joining the corpses’ ranks soon enough. Kaito clenches his jaw in stubborn refusal.

Heavy metal bars are reached in a few more teetering strides, and Kaito eagerly clamps them between his curled fists. His body aches as he pushes forward, jolts of dissonant nerves tensing and straining and buzzing dangerously as a damaged circuit might. Not for the first time since his unsteady landing in the underground passage, logic berates him for his hasty actions, disapprovingly regarding the excess strain placed on his worn limbs. But Kaito had never been one to take logic's warnings to heart, and pushes on until the gate gives a last protesting groan and finally creaks open.

A sudden rush of euphoria leaks into his heart at the feeble victory, threatening to throw his balance and skitter his step a bit too far onto the nearby platform. Kaito steps back, sweat already beading at the slope of his nape from the mild exertion. Striding a fair distance from the gate, he then turns back, readying himself to leap over the platform otherwise sure to plunge him into a watery _game over_. A deep breath is heaved, and then Kaito's sprinting the slight distance and launching himself over the gap between the rigged flooring and steady ground. Uncharacteristically, Kaito looks before he leaps. It makes the experience all the worse, heightening the fear scrambling throughout his thoughts and dulling his blind confidence.

He lands roughly, losing his balance altogether and sprawling over the thankfully solid platform gracelessly. What little air he's managed to suck into his lungs is blown away on impact. Kaito struggles to his feet, hacking out cough after cough until blood inevitably spatters from his throat and dribbles down his chin. He cups a sweaty palm over his mouth angrily, physically smothering his coughing regardless whether or not he smothers the rest of himself along with it.

Kaito takes his time crossing the next platform, letting the flames roar and rage beneath his feet. His slippers' soles feel sticky, as if melting from the violent heat pooling at the tiles underfoot. He doesn't stop to give it thought, allowing primal instinct to carry his wilting form forward.

He can - will - do this, he promises himself as he ducks and dodges and stumbles through loose formations of explosives set to stun. He will prove his worth as the hero he is once again, he declares triumphantly to himself as he reaches a slight break between the constant onslaught of explosives. His body will not yield.

The trio of explosives circle the suspended platform. Kaito's eyes catch on the jerkily flowing movement, captivated. Round and round. Kaito loses count of the times the row fully orbits around the platform, and his head swims at the staunch, looping focus he gives. A sudden splintering blow to his focus snaps him back to reality, his stomach lurching as the bulk of the effects of his strenuous activity catch up to him. He sets about counting in a well-measured rhythm set to that of the explosives' own clockwork movements. But patience had never been Kaito's most virtuous feature, and he barely manages to cling onto the very edge of the platform. And then, all three explosives crash into Kaito's left leg, one for one, with a resounding chain of thuds.

His hands chafe painfully against stone tiles. He can't hold on. Panic blossoms as prettily as a flesh rotting fungus in the curved cage of his near-rattling ribs. He can't hold on. 

But Kaito claws, his desperation turning his movements feral and frantic. His body threatens to give out altogether, a plea for him to uncoil the tension locking his arms in their hanging position. But heroes don’t give up, and therefore Kaito doesn’t give into his bodily pleas. 

He drags himself up slowly, shakily. Kaito hardly registers the slackening in his shoulders; hardly feels his jaw jutting uncomfortably into the stone floor as it unhinges to release the buildup of bloodstained dread and bile, dousing the surface in acidic spew. 

Legs threatening to buckle and give way to the fatigue seeping into his bones, he drags himself up again, half skidding through his own mess. He can’t keep himself upright for much longer, logic, the traitorous reminder that it is, trills. 

Driven by willpower alone, Kaito stumbles into a sprint, legs unfurling in sloppy strides. His feet leave the platform, kicking through the air desperately as he travels over the gaping distance in an arc of flailing limbs. 

He’d overshot slightly, he comes to realise too late, but by then he’s already losing his sense of balance altogether. He flops onto the ground with a breathless thud, arms stretching over the platform, fingers twitching, almost disbelievingly. There’s a rush of air above his head as a sudden row of explosives lurch towards him, detonating little more than a metre away from his head. His ears throb in the aftermath, the sound that lingers in the shell of his ear almost reminding him of a series of triggers being pulled, a series of screeches spat from a gun which fires the bullets whistling past his ear. But his survival is short-lived, and he can still feel death’s weighted pistol’s muzzle pressed against his head. He can taste the blood gurgling at the back of his throat, no matter how much he denies it. 

And then, brushing his thoughts off along with the dirt dusting his knees, he struggles to his feet, his body’s fatigue refusing to allow his shoulders to be in any state other than slumped. He can make it. He can be of more use. His illness wouldn’t stop him. 

But his hollowed reassurances are of little use as he trips over his own feet, slippery soles skidding over the edge. Kaito isn’t even allowed the dignity of falling by his own misstep as he’s caught and caged in a ruptured second’s fleeting passing. He pulls uselessly at sturdy bars, kicks and screams and cusses. Kaito struggles, and struggles, and struggles, each scrap of waning effort reaching a new defeat worn old by repetition. 

He’s caged within a cage, all too knowingly helpless, yet still struggling. He lashes out at an unseen warden through the bars of the cage, fists punching through passing air. The cage carries on with its sharp ascent, undisturbed by Kaito’s thrashing. 

The thick metal chain linking his cage to whatever lies above strains as it’s pulled taut, quickly jerking the cage, and Kaito’s protesting body in turn, dragging it along with it as it disappears into a dark crevice hidden away in the ceiling. Giving a last rattle, the cage is fully plunged into darkness as the trap door mechanism beneath snaps shut. 

The cage’s door swings open with a sharp click. His fist clenches around one of the bars of the cage, his grip keeping his balance. Suddenly the metal walls momentarily holdinging him captive he'd struggled to free himself from previously supports the most of his weight. The irony tastes notably bitter despite the overwhelmingly sour impression left on his tongue.

Kaito shuffles his weight between his feet experimentally before stepping out of the cage fully. A dank passageway narrow enough in length that Kaito's forced to slouch his shoulders and bow his head looms ahead.

It's a shameful walk he takes in clumsy strides. His thoughts are a mess of regret and disappointment and shame, the incessant flood of scattered, half-conceived voices reprimanding his weakness and bruising his an ugly black and blue.

The narrow passageway spits him back out into the underground passage from a direction he can't quite make out through his fatigued haze. He collapses to the floor, too tired to even attempt to inject grace into his limbs. He wonders dazedly how much time had past. It's probably best that he can't tell. He's struggling to hold on to what little dignity he still maintains without his flailing in vain timed. His eyes flicker impulsively towards the despairingly unreached exist, his gut wrenching with another particularly potent burst of shame.

Moments grind past, and Kaito makes his unsteady approach back to the the ladder rungs leading up through the manhole. They're climbed in a blur painted with unease. He doesn't give himself time to think about his wavering grip. He keeps moving, climbing above his bile-stained failure seething below.

.

The cool night air comes with a harsh chill biting at his sweaty cheeks. He hopes to end the night as quickly as possible, to slip straight from the unfamiliar shadows and right into his dorm room. But his luck had already proved itself to be cruelly underperforming tonight, and naturally it does so again.

Harukawa and Saihara's voices are low, and Kaito hopes that his assumption is correct and their conversation is indeed in the final stages of ending. It would best to wait it out, watch as they retire safely to their own rooms before making his way back to his own, but Kaito is far from a patient man, and in the end it's the selfish part of him - the part that begs to see the admiration and respect glint in Saihara and Harukawa's eyes; the part that _needs_ to see others' belief and trust in him, their hero - fed by his wounded pride that gives him the final push to do what he can right his appearance and walk forward.

"Oi, Shuuichi! Harumaki!" Kaito calls out. Saihara startles. Harukawa's head snaps towards the source of the sound, eyes flashing dangerously, then settling as recognition trickles in. The grin Kaito greets them with is almost real.

"Momota-kun!" Saihara greets in hurried surprise. Harukawa's greeting is left coldly unsaid. "I thought you weren't feeling well?"

Kaito scratches at the back of his head. "Yeah, I'm not feelin' too hot, but I couldn't just wimp out of training, y'know. I thought I'd use the chance and see what you guys got up to without my driving presence around while I trained a little way off! Got to say, it was real quiet without me. And, Shuuichi, no slackin' off!"

Saihara opens his mouth to respond, only to then shake his head, fond smile spliting his lips in mild bewilderment. Kaito doesn't look close enough to see the doubt brewing beneath.

Harukawa speaks in Saihara's silence, "You were probably slacking off somewhere too."

Kaito knocks his fists together. "No way! I was out observin' your guys' progress." Harukawa rolls her eyes. "Besides, it's late. We should head to bed."

Saihara and Harukawa seem to agree, as Harukawa graces them with a curt farewell and Kaito alone with a blush he thinks nothing of. Saihara lingers, walking beside Kaito to the dorms. They reach the entrance after a short walk - mildly limped on Kaito's part.

Saihara turns to face Kaito when they're standing directly in front of the door. "Hey... You're alright, right? You would... You would tell me if something was really wrong, wouldn't you?"

Kaito grins his widest grin. "'Course, what sorta hero would I be if I didn't let my sidekick know. Don't worry about me, Shuuichi. I'll have this virus beat by tomorrow and be back to top form!"

"Well, if you're sure..."

"Yeah, yeah. Don't worry about it! Get to bed. Tomorrow's a new day and all." Kaito sends Saihara off with a last smile and slight push to his shoulder. Saihara glances backwards, but says nothing more than a customary greeting.

Saihara's a good sidekick, putting Kaito's word above the stench of vomit cloying to Kaito's skin and scoarch marks blemishing his pants, before his intuition. He feels bad about lying, but reassures himself that calling it a blatant lie would be implying that he'd said anything blatantly untrue. Something's wrong, yes, but it's nothing to worry Saihara over. Tomorrow's a new day, and he'd be just fine.

What he doesn't allow himself to think is that Saihara didn't truly wish to see or hear a unrefined truth, nor did Kaito himself. A blind man is better than a dying man, in the end. Regardless, he still tastes blood stuck between his teeth.

(And after Iruma dies, and Gonta's unfairly executed; after it becomes apparent that Saihara's no more a sidekick to Kaito than Kaito is to Saihara; after Kaito coughs up blood onto the trial grounds; after he - they - finally manage to reach the end to the trail leading from the _exit_ sign, with a crutch naturally; after his world ends for a second time, and after he's plucked from his feet like a ragdoll by an exisal, and after he peers into Saihara's painfully relieved eyes from a bathroom window, and after he's poisoned, while Ouma's forcing the antidote to his lips, Kaito admits that he's dying.

But, even after death's forced an acknowledgement from his tongue, Kaito holds on to his believed heroism. Even after Ouma's bones and flesh and blood are crushed into a paste; after he becomes a murderer, and even after he fulfills his dream, and as he breathes his dying breath, he is a hero.

He doesn't die a flawed mortal who choked on his own blighted blood. He dies a hero, surely, despite the blood stuck between the teeth of his corpse. He holds that belief close to his heart as it stops beating.)


End file.
